[A person would think that a man who spends as much time immersed in language as Ortus does would have an appreciation for wordplay, and they would be right to think it. The cleverness of the remark is not lost on him, nor the subtle joke of the inflections - but it is the source of it that cows him.]
I would venture so, Holy Finger.
[He has discovered a fascinating grey rock close by the Saint's feet, upon which he considers stumbling headfirst in pursuit of blessed unconsciousness.]
I have found it of meager use for this purpose. Is there some manner in which I may serve you, Saint Patience?
[He rather blasphemously hopes there is not. He would prefer, in this instance, to a thing toyed with, and not a thing of use.]
[ So far as answers go, this one is ... not the most helpful. But wait, there's more! ]
Saint of Patience. And I see that you're definitely using quite a lot of it, in your... woodworking... endeavors.
[ A faint gesture, with the lit cigarette, toward the shed, possibly in benediction, possibly just meant to be indicative of the fact that it looks like a death trap waiting to fall over until it can feed on its hapless residents.
Oh, but it's also worse than that: the Saint is giving Ortus a very speculative look; dare we say, even, a bit of a head-to-toe examination? Maybe looking to see if this fellow follows in his mother's treasonous footsteps; maybe just looking to see how likely it is that he's going to take the Lord's Name in vain, getting a little spicy blasphemy into the mix, as it were. There's even a faint trace of 'hmm, just what would Harrow say' in the mix, although that at least is not really evident in his eyes or expression. ]
In what manner do you find yourself best suited to serve? Given that the answer does not appear to be carpentry.
[The tracery of the Saint of Patience's gaze is profoundly unsettling. For all that he is layered in stiff Ninth black cloth and dutifully painted, Ortus feels exposed beneath it, his vulnerabilities (of which there are many) laid bare for the Saint's perusal.
He cannot help but to quiver at the correction of the Saint's title, his eyes darting up fretfully from the earth to him, which is when he beholds the incomprehensible sight of the Saint's speculation.
He wets the seam of his lips lightly, the habitual abbreviation of the gesture common to those who bear the Ninth skulls and do not relish the taste of their paint, and drops his attention sidelong to the dirt.]
In whatever capacity my Lady sees fit, or yourself, Saint of Patience.
[The dully correct and meaningless answer, meekly given. He should leave it at that. He knows that he should. The man before him is not Harrowhark, given to forbearance due to long acquaintance.]
But in the specific, I have a measure of skill in poetry. I have found it provides my Lady some comfort in her hours of difficulty.
[There's nothing objectionable in the statement, no reason given to suppose he refers to anything but the general difficulties of life itself, and it is wholly appropriate for a former cavalier to be devoted to providing a measure of respite against them.]
cw: sketchily sexual allusions (possibly ongoing for the rest of this thread)
'Whatever capacity' anyone 'sees fit' is, of course, a dreadfully wide-ranging and nonspecific answer; one that could demand Ortus take to his knees, to fulfill all manner of servile and demeaning tasks — no small number of which would ensure that Ortus would get more than a taste of his own greasepaint shoved down his throat. Well, presumably not with Harrowhark, but then again — it isn't as if Augustine has ever had a reason to be interested in identifying the Ninth Saint's preferred sexual peccadilloes, in the not-quite-a-year he's known her.
"Lord love a man who's good with his mouth," he answers airily, making no secret of the way his gaze is locked on that abbreviated gesture, as if desperately hoping for another glimpse of unpainted (pink!) tongue. "As do I, for that matter." (Wait, what? Is he implying something about the Lord Undying, if he structures his sentences so?) "Tell me — do you prefer to be the one opening up and letting whatever words come to hand spill out of your mouth, when inspiration strikes — or would you rather be the one doing the inspiring?"
So that's how it is. It isn't a kind of needling Ortus has experience being on the end of, but he is accustomed to enduring all manner of indignities. If this is what amuses the Saint of Patience, perhaps that is the lesson meant to be elicited from his name.
(Has anyone ever looked at him with interest in seeing his tongue, feigned or not? There is no memory that comes to him of such a thing. The Ninth was never a place of much passion, and what there was of it was never directed at him. It should not cut him so.)
"I prefer neither, Holy Saint, if you will forgive the choosing of the ungiven third," he says, his mouth hardly moving as he speaks, tongue veiled behind teeth, "I am rarely struck by inspiration as you describe. My work is the product of deliberation over time. I am not so blessed as many artists are, to have words come to me with such ease."
"And as you can see, Blessed Finger," he adds, the most deniable trace of acid in his self-depreciation, "There is little about me that would be a source of inspiration to anyone, even if I wished to be a muse."
"No?" The Saint of Patience sounds genuinely surprised, maybe even a little bit hurt at that.
(Perhaps the key word here is sounds — but then again, if there is literally nothing left that's genuine about someone, if everything he is is just one mask after another, isn't that another kind of truth, when you get right down to it?)
"I don't think you give yourself enough credit," he tells Ortus, gaze flickering lightly and lightning-quick, here to there, taking in some of his more... cuddly bits, robe-swaddled though they may be. "People throughout the universe have long held to a very wide standard of tastes; I don't see why you shouldn't be precisely what someone has been utterly longing for, for most of their life..."
A slower, more thoughtful drag on his cigarette, which — when withdrawn — is used to doodle a fairly Rubenesque series of curves in the air between them.
If Ortus' faith had not already been hewn away by the vagaries of his existence, he might find himself in the grip of crisis in this instance, watching with dull diffidence as the Saint traces the air languidly with the glowing tip of his cigarette.
But he has not believed that God was kind since he was but a child, and he has known it since he was seventeen. That his Saint is a lech is, at least, superior to several alternatives.
"I defer to your wisdom, Holy Saint," he says, with a formal bow of his head, mouth this time not so stiff, "I would not think to gainsay your experience in such matters."
It is possible his tone implies that such experience may encompass a breadth and depth of knowledge that would put the poets of the Sixth House to shame, delivered in the arch shaping of vowels and the mildest quirking of his brow. He is half Eighth; he knows his way about such things.
"I would imagine that any such one would prefer, however, that my domicile not contain so many gaps between its boards."
Alas, poor Ortus; here, he is subjected to chortling. It's a terrible laugh: terribly amused, terribly loud, terribly long, terribly performative — there's even a knee-slap, and the Saint of Patience does not even have the good grace to use the hand holding the cigarette, thereby setting his trousers on fire.
"Oh, bless you!" saith Patience, laughter switched off (to a smile) all at once after all too long. (Admittedly, five seconds may well have been too long, with that laugh.) "Shouldn't doubt it for a moment!"
(Warning: Unclear Antecedents! Shouldn't doubt his prior encouragements? Shouldn't doubt what Ortus himself just said? Both?! ... it's probably both.)
The smile switches off as well, as a more speculative gaze settles on volleying between Ortus and the Shed of Ortus, and — inevitably — another drag off the cig, although at least this time he isn't using it as a presentation aid.
"And what is your current plan in that regard, other than the chalk?"
Next to nothing changes in his demeanor. He still does not curl his hands shut, nor clench his jaw. There is simply a complete cessation of motion save for the minute realignment of his features, his own placid mask cracked down its center over an icy sheen of -
And it is gone so swiftly it is as if there was never a lapse, his face only round and dull and foolish in its glumness. Whatever flare may have been is doused in dim nothingness, as Ortus schools himself once more to impassivity.
"To seek aid, if I am able to enlist it," he says, with an air of apology for the answer, "To seek education, if I am not."
"And here I was just desperately hoping you were going to start with something along the lines of 'find a nice comfortable way to plug those gaps,'" answers the Saint, with a sad sort of sigh, and a little bit of a cigarette-gesture (again, of course) that is maybe a little bit stabby and a little bit thrusty and really it would probably have been better for the sake of Ortus's mental health if the thrusting hadn't repeated three or four times.
"Some of those holes are quite glorious," he adds, tone shifting a bit more conciliatory, and when did he get quite close enough to clap Ortus on the shoulder in such a companionable way? How can Ortus get away again without causing offense?? His hand squeezes that doughy, monklike shoulder, quite firmly, although not quite painfully. (Maybe just a little bit too athletically for comfort.)
"The way I see it, you've got a few options," Patience continues, still gripping poor Ortus's shoulder, smoking with his other hand. "Now, spray foam is not sealant — I wouldn't recommend counting on that to do anything good for you, especially not internally — but even if you don't want to replace all the warped boards — which is arguably the highest-quality fix, although it's also going to be the most time-intensive — you should still be able to find some nice faggots for the largest gaps, and once you've got them jammed into those holes as hard and deep as you can, you can caulk them in place the rest of the way."
This last part, unlike all those earlier parts, said with the straightest and kindliest of faces, of course.
The Ninth is not a House of casual touch. Ortus is not a man who wishes it was otherwise. When the Saint claps his shoulder he tenses, his holy instructions nearly drowned out by a hum of discomfort. The acrid smoke only contributes to his queasiness, a hard, tumbling ball in his hollowed stomach.
There is no retreat he may make or resistance he may offer. His withdrawal is an internal one, sinking into numbness. His shoulder slackens, the bunching of perhaps unexpectedly sturdy musculature under his soft exterior giving way to limp passivity.
"Thank you, Holy Finger," he says, deferentially absent, a poppet animated by long practice, "I find myself with many unaccounted for hours, of late. I will endeavor to apply the highest quality of repair. I would not represent the Empire poorly, with haphazard work."
It is, maybe, disappointing, to the Emperor's First Saint, that this chunky-monk-ey of the Ninth House gives in so readily.
... Still, he's not going to let it stop him; the man clearly needs someone to encourage him to stand up for himself, shake out his vestments, learn to live a little under the skull paint, right?
(Isn't he the one with the terrible mother, after all? From what little Harrowhark said of the matter, he can't begin to think that she would have encouraged the boy to become a man, in the way of such things.)
"You as well, eh?" is offered conspiratorially, or almost affectionately — and then the Saint of Patience slings an arm around Ortus's shoulders, steering him back toward his (his!) shed, cigarette ashing itself into nothingness as it falls from his other hand (and never quite lands). "Let's see what you've got to commence repairs with, then! No time like the present!"
no subject
I would venture so, Holy Finger.
[He has discovered a fascinating grey rock close by the Saint's feet, upon which he considers stumbling headfirst in pursuit of blessed unconsciousness.]
I have found it of meager use for this purpose. Is there some manner in which I may serve you, Saint Patience?
[He rather blasphemously hopes there is not. He would prefer, in this instance, to a thing toyed with, and not a thing of use.]
no subject
[ So far as answers go, this one is ... not the most helpful. But wait, there's more! ]
Saint of Patience. And I see that you're definitely using quite a lot of it, in your... woodworking... endeavors.
[ A faint gesture, with the lit cigarette, toward the shed, possibly in benediction, possibly just meant to be indicative of the fact that it looks like a death trap waiting to fall over until it can feed on its hapless residents.
Oh, but it's also worse than that: the Saint is giving Ortus a very speculative look; dare we say, even, a bit of a head-to-toe examination? Maybe looking to see if this fellow follows in his mother's treasonous footsteps; maybe just looking to see how likely it is that he's going to take the Lord's Name in vain, getting a little spicy blasphemy into the mix, as it were. There's even a faint trace of 'hmm, just what would Harrow say' in the mix, although that at least is not really evident in his eyes or expression. ]
In what manner do you find yourself best suited to serve? Given that the answer does not appear to be carpentry.
no subject
He cannot help but to quiver at the correction of the Saint's title, his eyes darting up fretfully from the earth to him, which is when he beholds the incomprehensible sight of the Saint's speculation.
He wets the seam of his lips lightly, the habitual abbreviation of the gesture common to those who bear the Ninth skulls and do not relish the taste of their paint, and drops his attention sidelong to the dirt.]
In whatever capacity my Lady sees fit, or yourself, Saint of Patience.
[The dully correct and meaningless answer, meekly given. He should leave it at that. He knows that he should. The man before him is not Harrowhark, given to forbearance due to long acquaintance.]
But in the specific, I have a measure of skill in poetry. I have found it provides my Lady some comfort in her hours of difficulty.
[There's nothing objectionable in the statement, no reason given to suppose he refers to anything but the general difficulties of life itself, and it is wholly appropriate for a former cavalier to be devoted to providing a measure of respite against them.]
cw: sketchily sexual allusions (possibly ongoing for the rest of this thread)
"Lord love a man who's good with his mouth," he answers airily, making no secret of the way his gaze is locked on that abbreviated gesture, as if desperately hoping for another glimpse of unpainted (pink!) tongue. "As do I, for that matter." (Wait, what? Is he implying something about the Lord Undying, if he structures his sentences so?) "Tell me — do you prefer to be the one opening up and letting whatever words come to hand spill out of your mouth, when inspiration strikes — or would you rather be the one doing the inspiring?"
(Poor Ortus.)no subject
(Has anyone ever looked at him with interest in seeing his tongue, feigned or not? There is no memory that comes to him of such a thing. The Ninth was never a place of much passion, and what there was of it was never directed at him. It should not cut him so.)
"I prefer neither, Holy Saint, if you will forgive the choosing of the ungiven third," he says, his mouth hardly moving as he speaks, tongue veiled behind teeth, "I am rarely struck by inspiration as you describe. My work is the product of deliberation over time. I am not so blessed as many artists are, to have words come to me with such ease."
"And as you can see, Blessed Finger," he adds, the most deniable trace of acid in his self-depreciation, "There is little about me that would be a source of inspiration to anyone, even if I wished to be a muse."
no subject
(Perhaps the key word here is sounds — but then again, if there is literally nothing left that's genuine about someone, if everything he is is just one mask after another, isn't that another kind of truth, when you get right down to it?)
"I don't think you give yourself enough credit," he tells Ortus, gaze flickering lightly and lightning-quick, here to there, taking in some of his more... cuddly bits, robe-swaddled though they may be. "People throughout the universe have long held to a very wide standard of tastes; I don't see why you shouldn't be precisely what someone has been utterly longing for, for most of their life..."
A slower, more thoughtful drag on his cigarette, which — when withdrawn — is used to doodle a fairly Rubenesque series of curves in the air between them.
"Where inspiration wishes to strike, of course."
no subject
But he has not believed that God was kind since he was but a child, and he has known it since he was seventeen. That his Saint is a lech is, at least, superior to several alternatives.
"I defer to your wisdom, Holy Saint," he says, with a formal bow of his head, mouth this time not so stiff, "I would not think to gainsay your experience in such matters."
It is possible his tone implies that such experience may encompass a breadth and depth of knowledge that would put the poets of the Sixth House to shame, delivered in the arch shaping of vowels and the mildest quirking of his brow. He is half Eighth; he knows his way about such things.
"I would imagine that any such one would prefer, however, that my domicile not contain so many gaps between its boards."
no subject
"Oh, bless you!" saith Patience, laughter switched off (to a smile) all at once after all too long. (Admittedly, five seconds may well have been too long, with that laugh.) "Shouldn't doubt it for a moment!"
(Warning: Unclear Antecedents! Shouldn't doubt his prior encouragements? Shouldn't doubt what Ortus himself just said? Both?! ... it's probably both.)
The smile switches off as well, as a more speculative gaze settles on volleying between Ortus and the Shed of Ortus, and — inevitably — another drag off the cig, although at least this time he isn't using it as a presentation aid.
"And what is your current plan in that regard, other than the chalk?"
no subject
Next to nothing changes in his demeanor. He still does not curl his hands shut, nor clench his jaw. There is simply a complete cessation of motion save for the minute realignment of his features, his own placid mask cracked down its center over an icy sheen of -
And it is gone so swiftly it is as if there was never a lapse, his face only round and dull and foolish in its glumness. Whatever flare may have been is doused in dim nothingness, as Ortus schools himself once more to impassivity.
"To seek aid, if I am able to enlist it," he says, with an air of apology for the answer, "To seek education, if I am not."
no subject
"Some of those holes are quite glorious," he adds, tone shifting a bit more conciliatory, and when did he get quite close enough to clap Ortus on the shoulder in such a companionable way?
How can Ortus get away again without causing offense??His hand squeezes that doughy, monklike shoulder, quite firmly, although not quite painfully. (Maybe just a little bit too athletically for comfort.)"The way I see it, you've got a few options," Patience continues, still gripping poor Ortus's shoulder, smoking with his other hand. "Now, spray foam is not sealant — I wouldn't recommend counting on that to do anything good for you, especially not internally — but even if you don't want to replace all the warped boards — which is arguably the highest-quality fix, although it's also going to be the most time-intensive — you should still be able to find some nice faggots for the largest gaps, and once you've got them jammed into those holes as hard and deep as you can, you can caulk them in place the rest of the way."
This last part, unlike all those earlier parts, said with the straightest and kindliest of faces, of course.
no subject
There is no retreat he may make or resistance he may offer. His withdrawal is an internal one, sinking into numbness. His shoulder slackens, the bunching of perhaps unexpectedly sturdy musculature under his soft exterior giving way to limp passivity.
"Thank you, Holy Finger," he says, deferentially absent, a poppet animated by long practice, "I find myself with many unaccounted for hours, of late. I will endeavor to apply the highest quality of repair. I would not represent the Empire poorly, with haphazard work."
no subject
... Still, he's not going to let it stop him; the man clearly needs someone to encourage him to stand up for himself, shake out his vestments, learn to live a little under the skull paint, right?
(Isn't he the one with the terrible mother, after all? From what little Harrowhark said of the matter, he can't begin to think that she would have encouraged the boy to become a man, in the way of such things.)
"You as well, eh?" is offered conspiratorially, or almost affectionately — and then the Saint of Patience slings an arm around Ortus's shoulders, steering him back toward his (his!) shed, cigarette ashing itself into nothingness as it falls from his other hand (and never quite lands). "Let's see what you've got to commence repairs with, then! No time like the present!"